


Spectacle

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Sherlock Is Having A 'Hard' Time, implied - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 15:27:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3655392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something different about John since Sherlock's return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spectacle

**Author's Note:**

> I was actually looking for something else when I found this in my drafts folder. It was from a prompt in one of the lovely groups to which I belong, written quite a while ago. Enjoy.

 

 

 

"Sherlock," John called upon entering flat 'b'. It still felt natural, even though he didn't live there any longer, even after all this time, after all they'd been through together, apart, then together again. It was the last thing that was still taking some getting used to, the healing from the betrayal of the only two people he'd let back in after vowing to let the world go on without him. 

 

The difference this time, however, was the fact that Sherlock was actually trying now. He'd acquired a second temperature-controlled storage facility for his experiments and set up his lab in a corner of his bedroom, leaving the kitchen area (mostly) free to carry out its actual function. He began picking John's bed-sit's front door instead of the window after John pointed his gun at him that time. Sherlock thought he didn't know who he was but John assured him that he did, informing him that the next time that happened, he'd shoot him for sure. The look he received after mentioning that it wouldn't have been the first time he took a bullet or two caused such an expression on John's face, that it was never mentioned again. Sherlock even attempted to leave John alone at work even if there was a marginally interesting case on. 

 

John still didn't move back yet, though he spent most of his time in 221 Baker Street again nowadays. The few times he'd gone and stayed over after a case wrapped up late at night, he even contemplated just doing it, just moving back in and letting his heart sort it out later. Waking up with significantly less nightmares or the gentle strains of Sherlock's violin floating up the stairs from the sitting room had a lot to do with that urge. In the end, however, he just couldn't bring himself to do it, and so they continued this delicate mending of their friendship. Well, it was more a reweaving, as it wasn't just a patch or a line of stitching, but a reconfiguration and he had absolutely no idea of how the finished product would turn out.

 

It struck him how the scene was reminiscent of his first night there, jogging up the stairs after coming in from the dark of night and going in to find Sherlock with his long, lean body stretched on the sofa. Even the left sleeve of his crisp, white button up was rolled to the elbow, revealing the veins in his milky skin. Though his artistic hands were pressed together as if in prayer beneath his chin, John knew Sherlock had at least two nicotine patches stuck to the inside of the bared forearm.

 

"I'm here," he said, in more ways than one. "What was it you wanted?"

 

"It isn't too late?" Sherlock didn't move anything but what was required to speak. His usually boisterous rumble softened almost unrecognizably. John felt it and the question somewhere in his chest. Yes, Sherlock once again had him rush over there at a text without giving him any details. Again, like that first night however, he went. He didn't bother to take off his coat when he sat in 'his' chair, although the fire was doing a good job of making the place cozy. He didn't yet want to get too comfortable.

 

"Uh, no. I have the weekend because I traded days. And I will take an additional personal day if need be. What's up?"

 

What's up? The fact that Sherlock had resorted to meditation in order to appear calm when at long last he heard John come in the street door with keys he'd never bothered returning to Mrs. Hudson, heard his familiar tread on the stairs, the rustling of his old black Haversack against soft wool. The slight smell had Sherlock guess the oatmeal coloured jumper was being worn that day. The way it sounded against John's jacket and the aroma in his sensitive nose was distinct. John had spilled tea on it. Ginseng with too much milk and even a little sugar though he didn't normally take it. Sherlock had to hold in his smile with all of his might, realizing John was fortifying himself with energy for whatever was to come that night. Also, he had his gun on him, going by the undertone of the oil he used to maintain it. It was a particular brand Sherlock insisted on during his time Away when he had the choice. It was right and good. It was Home.

 

"Case!" Sherlock said, suddenly leaping to his feet to pull on his suit jacket and that infamous wool coat. "I told Lestrade perhaps I'd look into it." He hesitated, looking far away. "If you were free, that is."

 

"Ah." John had a brief flash of remembering how he'd often wanted to strangle Sherlock with that wretched blue scarf he currently wound around the pale column of his throat. When he was being a particular git, John just want it to grab it and-

 

"John!" When had Sherlock gotten halfway down the stairs already?

 

"Yeah! Coming!" With another nod to their early days, they nearly ran over Mrs. Hudson who twittered happily about seeing John again, how it was just like old times. Sherlock once more enthusiastically kissed her forehead and, with a familiar dramatic swirl of his coattails, stepped outside to hail a cab whilst texting.

 

"He's honestly only like himself again when you're here," Mrs. Hudson said pensively, stopping John in his tracks. He turned to face her as she approached him. If he was honest with himself, John only really felt like himself when he was with Sherlock. Whoever he was now, anyways.

 

"Not sure if that's good or bad," John said with a smirk, attempting to make the moment a bit lighter.

 

"Always good," she continued, determined to retain the significance of her words. "Even when it gets bad, it's never as bad as when you're not here. You're good for him, you know." Was he? Whatever the case, she was laying the guilt on in a manner that rivaled his Mum, God rest her soul. He kissed her cheek and rushed out after his friend, unable to figure out what to say in response.

 

 

***

Donovan pouted but said not one word to either of them and John rather liked it that way. Sherlock made the effort to do the same, though he knew John could see it there, right on the tip of his tongue when the Consulting Detective opened his mouth to speak. Instead of a scathing remark about having just been dumped by her cheating boyfriend and replacing him with a ginger cat, he greeted Lestrade and literally bit his lip before turning to the body. 

 

John let Sherlock do his dance with Death, in which he executed intricate steps in an attempt to gather enough information to beat it. Sometimes, his mind unwittingly put a musical soundtrack to it. Though his recognition of classical music pieces was limited, it seemed off to use anything else. So tonight it was Bach's Minuet in G. John's heart swelled with humour and he couldn't help a smile as he stood 'at ease' to Lestrade's right.

 

"I hope he didn't make you hold off the forensics team too long," John mentioned, trying to stop the goings on in his head before he burst out laughing as Sherlock leapt delicately over the body in perfect time to the melody there.

 

"Less than five minutes," Lestrade mentioned, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his own dark trench coat. "We barely closed off the scene when you two arrived. That stopped everything else."

 

"He told me he said he'd take a look if I was free. That was over an hour ago. Doesn't take that long to secure a scene, does it?"

 

"No. But we were talking of a cold case. This just turned up twenty minutes ago." Just before he arrived at Baker Street then. Curious. He frowned at his friend a moment, then caught his eye. Sherlock was in Detective mode, however, mask firmly in place, expression unreadable.

 

"John." Sherlock called him. 

 

"His Highness beckons," John smirked. Lestrade returned his smile and tossed his silver head in the direction of their Prince of Petulance.

 

It had actually been a while since their last case together. John had fibbed about switching days at work. In reality, he'd taken extra shifts at the surgery in order to keep his concern at bay, having extracted a promise from Sherlock that he would be contacted if there was a case or it was a Danger Night. In Sherlock's normal style of impeccable timing, John was just about to check in with him when he received the text to come by that evening. John had been practicing his observing in the two week interim, aided significantly by his breaking down and acquiring the glasses he'd desperately fought against. 

 

He didn't have to wear them all the time and they weren't terrible looking, rounded tortoise shell frames that had a bit of a sixties feel to them that he didn't hate. It was just that he already had much more grey in his blond than he liked to see in the mirror of a morning, and there were significantly more creaks and pops when he got out of bed than a few years ago. The glasses were the last bastion between him and official pensioner status, in his opinion. That was until he actually used them to look at an old (illegal) crime scene photo he had on his phone. He could see the tiny star shape of a piece of confetti on someone's shirt sleeve that connected the victim to his murderer. He went on to look at other things from past cases and was pretty pleased with himself. He still didn't wear them all the time, but he did slip them on now, then proceeded to rattle off his own observations as he examined the body.

 

He felt Sherlock's eyes on him as usual, ever vigilant in being ready to urge John in the right direction with a gentle insult or a leading question. This time, however, he was unusually silent, and when John glanced up during his recitation, he stopped. Sherlock looked paler than usual, his face completely blank, totally still except for the rapid blinking. It was reminiscent of when John asked him to be his best man. It was still creepy.

 

"Are you ill?" he asked, concerned. Sherlock seemed to reboot, swallowing hard.

 

"Go on," he said almost too quietly to be heard. 

 

John's eyes were a dollop of honey in a blueberry sea. He spoke about different types of serrated edges, iliac spines, crests, coagulation... His words seemed to be sprouting more syllables, go more in-depth, uttered with a solid certainty as he pointed to the different areas of which he spoke. The entire time, however, he did not break eye contact, seeming to speak directly into Sherlock's brain, which unhelpfully supplied certain irrelevant details such as the shape of John's lips as he formed different words, how he licked them thirty percent more than usual, how his eyes kept dropping briefly to Sherlock's own slightly parted lips. He'd had to open his mouth. He could hardly breathe and needed the additional intake. It wasn't that cold, yet his extremities tingled. The pit of his belly, however seemed full of smoldering charcoal, gritty and veined with orange flames that made the muscles around there quiver in the heat it gave off.

 

He was explaining about temperature now, things Sherlock already knew but was willing to listen to repeatedly, as long as John looked at him like that whilst saying it. Sherlock leapt out of his skin inwardly when John touched his hand, controlling it with all his strength into only a very slight flinching in a manner that could be overlooked as a normal movement. He let John move his hand over the different areas he was explaining about until he ran out of words, releasing his hand, but not his eyes

 

John had been under the scrutiny of Sherlock before but it was never like this. And always like this. Sherlock was a study in opposites, paying attention but not listening, both warm and cool to the touch, perfectly still and vibrating. All the talking he was doing was making his lips dry, but wetting them with his tongue was somehow inefficient, though he kept trying, as his mouth was rather dry as well.  The little bubble they'd somehow built around themselves at that moment, in which they didn't need to speak above a low murmur, in which their heads were required to be close enough to almost touch, in which touching was just an extension of their normal communication, burst at the sound of Lestrade asking what they had for him. The spell may have been derailed, but it wasn't broken. John took off his glasses but had to call Sherlock a few times before he answered. In his usual rapid fire speech pattern, laced heavily with commentary on their incompetence, both current and impending, Sherlock proceeded to solve the case, link it to another one which he also solved whilst walking back toward the main road, leaving all in his wake gawking. Even Sally's jaw had dropped, and everyone was silent for a full ten seconds before Lestrade's sharp tones put everybody's arses in gear.

 

"John," called Greg as he once again made to follow Sherlock.

 

"Yeah?" 

 

"Next time just snog him. It'd be quicker and less uncomfortable to watch than what just went on there." 

 

John looked up at the grinning Detective Inspector a moment, but didn't respond with anything other than, "'Night." before rushing past to catch up with Sherlock who was actually patiently waiting for him on the other side of the police tape.

 

 

 

 

                                                                        


End file.
